


Overboard

by mythomagicallydelicious



Series: Merciful [1]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Campaign 2 (Critical Role), Gen, siren au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:42:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27997707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mythomagicallydelicious/pseuds/mythomagicallydelicious
Summary: You have to get closer, to hear more clearly what the voice is singing to you. The pictures painted in your mind incomplete, and you're desperate to hear more.
Series: Merciful [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2050626
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	Overboard

You hear singing. It's nearing dusk, the sun dipping closer and closer to the horizon behind you. The crew around you are quiet, routine checks and chores being done as you secure your own work.

But there's a voice. Low, but clear, and it fills you with something--some feeling you're not sure you've had before. A longing for a home you haven't seen yet, but know is waiting for you. A warm sort of love, and the song raises in pitch and tone and it is _calling_ to you.

You don't think as you follow the calling to the stern, staring out into the ocean, and spy a sand bar, a rocky outcropping formed by chance, and luck of the tides, depending on the day. You don't give a second thought before dropping the tool in your hands and gripping the railing, leaning in closer to the growing song.

You pay no mind to the call of the captain behind you, nor the clap on your shoulder and a voice of a crewmate pausing in their work to talk. Ask some meaningless question. You're busy, can't they hear it too? How can they not be changing course to get closer to this--whatever this is?

You _have_ to get closer, to hear more clearly what the voice is saying to you. The pictures painted in your mind incomplete, and you're desperate to hear _more_.

You're over the railing before you process the actions you just took. You're diving, propelling yourself through the water, breaking the surface and swimming to the sand bar.

And once you get there the singer is revealed, their gaunt form, long pinkish gray hair and beautiful face, almost distracting enough from the claw-like fingers, his sharp, broken teeth. From the dirty wings protruding from their back, you're unsure if they could support their weight but you're distracted again immediately as the song continues-

Mouth growing wider as they sing, a smile growing and eyes narrowing as they read your soul's desires and faults out to you.

You're crawling hand over hand, across broken stone and muddy clay until you're before them, your eyes wide and within their grasp.

As the deep bass settles within your bones, you're vibrating with energy, tears in your eyes as their judgement flows through you.

You're frozen before them. You're made of stone, unable and unwilling to even twitch away as breath that smells of rotting fruit and decay blows over your face.

_"That's nice"_ they say in a low voice. Your fear grows for the first time now that their song has halted. You've heard tales of sirens and their tricks. You've heard only second hand accounts, friends of lost sailors. Men who called out and were given the barest of nonsensical stories before their friends jumped ship in nasty storms and clear waters alike, swimming to the temporary island that disappears upon high tides.

A calling you dismissed, in the past. A calling that ensnared you as easily as any other poor soul. To an island that doesn't exist most of the time, and already is being covered by the encroaching night and rising waves lapping at the temporary shores.

" _That's nice_ ," they repeat, and your fingers dig into your soaking trousers, on your knees before this siren, suddenly as sure as your need to come, you're sure you're about to die.

"Please," you manage, voice trembling, cracking mid-phrase.

" _Shh, everything is going to be alright_ ," they say, eyes narrowing further.

You want to close your eyes, but you don't. You've been called a coward many times in your life, but you jumped into the ocean wide-eyed. You might as well stay that way as you meet your end.

They move slowly, wings rustling and a few sickly, grayish feathers falling as they do so. One hand reaches out for your throat, the other for one arm, and your mouth is dry with fear as their surprisingly strong grip takes hold of you. They lean in, the smell of decay wafting over you even stronger.

" _Rest, child, don't worry for a spell_ ," they say, sing-song-like, and you feel your eyes grow heavy against your will. You try to jerk back, but their grip is absolute. Their magic settles over you and your eyes blink rapidly, trying to fight the will to sleep overtaking your desire to see your death head on.

You lose the battle, warmth radiating from the siren before you and their scratchy, calloused grip light against your skin where they catch you as you fall.

**Author's Note:**

> The first fic is in second person pov, but at the time I wasn't expecting it to be a series. So this may read weird later, but this should be the only one in that perspective. 
> 
> You=Fjord in this, but that comes up in the next fic.


End file.
